Who Listens to the Listener?
by StillWaters1
Summary: 7x03 missing scene. When the grief of all he's lost finally catches up to him, Bobby takes a chance on the support of a long-estranged friend.


Title: Who Listens to the Listener?

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Supernatural

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: 7x03 missing scene. When the grief of all he's lost finally catches up to him, Bobby takes a chance on the support of a long-estranged friend.

Notes: This story takes place in the time between Bobby leaving Dean at the cabin and the scene where he's filling up the car at the gas station when Dean calls him about Sam's note. The most difficult part of 7x02 for me was the burning of Bobby's house. That house was a safe haven, a recovery unit, a library, and, for Bobby, a home filled with objects and memories of his lives both before and after he became a hunter. When neither 7x03 nor 7x04 gave the characters a moment to mourn that loss, I felt the need to finish this story. Bobby is very much the "listener" in the show – the one everyone comes to for answers and advice. At this stage in the series, and with Sam and Dean coming apart at the seams themselves, I could see Bobby feeling very much alone – who, if anyone, could he turn to when _he_ needed to talk? Who listens to the listener? These were the words he gave me. I hope I did him credit. Dialogue quoted or paraphrased from 7x02 or 7x03 obviously does not belong to me. Thank you for reading and thank you to those reviewers I am unable to respond to personally via private message. I truly appreciate your support.

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><p>Bobby Singer was a fighter.<p>

A man with a seemingly limitless knowledge of lore, a face lined with experience, hands worn to callused practicality…..and a soft spot for Buddhist philosophy.

Maybe it was because he spent so much time fighting Christianity's blueprint for the end of the world, or that he was intimately familiar with the idea of impermanence because he walked its edge with every breath, but….. for a hunter, soldier, and all around paranoid bastard, Bobby was actually pretty Zen.

He lived…_.had_ lived…in a house filled with stuff, but that stuff had never owned him. He had copies of important books and resources stashed all over the country because he knew better - knew he'd need them for the fight, and that any base of operations was a prime target. Honestly, it was amazing that something like this hadn't happened _years_ ago. He'd had enough demons pass through, and be exorcised _from_, his house for them to know that it was home base to more hunters than just him. So there was no real reason to grieve – it was just stuff and home was where family was, which, at the moment, was a cabin in Montana. But as he got on the road to start reassembling his library, Bobby started to feel…..loss. Grief. And a selfish need for someone to ask him one of the last questions he had asked Dean in the ashes of that old, familiar kitchen.

_How're you doin'?_

Bobby had asked Dean that question for good reason – and _not _just because that so-called lead box couldn't keep the cracks from showing in Dean's eyes. It was because Bobby recognized his own tendencies in Dean at that moment - too busy moving from one endless war to the next, worrying about friends, family, sometimes complete strangers before even _thinking_ of checking in on himself. And Dean, predictably, had blown it off and brought it back to _other_ people's issues – which were always a damn sight easier to deal with than your own. That is, until Bobby hadn't been "right here", the room, the _house_, hadn't been "right here", and Dean was pushed to leave Bobby a raw voicemail with the real answer to that question. One overflowing with loss, fear, uncertainty, exhaustion, and the relief that last-line thinking brought to the idea of suicidal fratricide.

"_You asked me how I was doin'? Well, not good."_

Bobby still had that message. He always saved them because he knew how easily a voicemail could become the last time he'd ever hear that person's voice. So he kept Sam's and Dean's because God knew those boys died often enough. Still had ones from Rufus, Ellen, Jo, Caleb, Jim, even one from John despite being pissed at the sonuvabitch more often than not. Hadn't been able to bring himself to erase the one Karen had left when she came back. All people he had fought for, fought _with_. All people he had asked the very same question on a regular basis. All people who were either too dead or too broken to ask _him_.

So he asked himself.

_How're you doin'?_

And found the core of Dean's answer in his own.

_Not good._

And it wasn't because of the loss of stuff….it was just that the stuff was too damn connected to memories. Memories of good and bad, of moments and people that had shaped this crazy mess he called his life. Memories he realized he was afraid to lose.

Maybe he wasn't as unattached as he thought.

Bobby pulled off the road, eyes burning, the crunch of gravel under unfamiliar tires grinding along with the ache in his chest. He didn't have time for this. He was trying to figure out how to keep the world from turning into Leviathan central, while holding together an "it's only my leg that's broken" Dean and an "I'm fine, just trying to reopen my hand 'cause Satan's riding shotgun" Sam, holed up in a cabin haunted by the memory of another close friend's loss. He didn't have time to grieve. He had work to do. Battles to fight. Impossible questions to answer.

Thing was, he had people…and _non_people….he could go to about killing Purgatory's escapees.

But no one left to talk to about _this_.

About the fact that he was, in fact, "not good."

He couldn't talk to the boys, because one more stone and they'd crumble into pieces even angels and demons couldn't put back together. And everyone else was dead. Long gone. Leaving the man with the answers to shout futilely into an endless silence.

Bobby sighed wearily, running a hand across his face to push back what suspiciously felt like a sob lodged in his throat. "Pull it together, ya idjit," he growled to himself, his wallet shifting uncomfortably as he leaned forward in the seat.

He paused with a sudden thought and pulled the wallet out slowly, reaching inside for the familiar information.

"This is stupid," he sighed after a long moment. He hadn't talked to him in years. Didn't know if he'd even answer. But Bobby realized that he really just needed someone to _listen_. And he may not have laid eyes on the stubborn sonuvabitch in years, but he had been a _damn_ good listener. A good friend. Hell, Bobby had once called him family.

So screw it. He had done crazier. And he may not have had time for this soap opera drama, but it seemed breakdowns were going around – figured it was about time he caught one after three weeks in close quarters with Sam and Dean. And he had seen others through enough of these kinds of things to know that sometimes you had no choice. That you _had_ to make the time, look at it as a skirmish in a larger battle. Treat it like any other fight.

So Bobby fought.

And made the call.

"Hey…..uh, yeah, it's me. Look, I know it's been a long time and you probably hate my guts for what happened…..got every reason to….but, well….it's just….I got no one else," he chuckled, a humorless sound. "I, uh, just….wanted to talk to ya – you don't have to say anything – I ain't lookin' for answers or pity or nothin'…..just gotta get it out of the way to, y'know, move on….bigger fish to fry, that sort of crap. So if you could just listen…..well, I'd appreciate it." He cleared his throat; sought a steadying breath. "Y'see, the house was torched. Leviathans, I think. Don't really matter. I know, I know, about time. Smartass. I mean, I was ready for it – got all the important stuff stashed in 'bout a dozen different places. Guess I figured that was all that mattered, that the rest wouldn't bother me, y'know? But uh…." The words caught roughly in the back of his throat. "Well, guess I was wrong. Damn memories just ambushed me outta friggin' nowhere and I figured…hell, you were _there_ for a lot of 'em, so who better to reminisce or whatever with, right?"

Bobby sighed, pressing on through the awkwardness. "Anyway, I was thinkin'….remember that dent in the shop floor? The one I was always catching the tool cart on 'cause I never bothered to patch it up? Hell if I can remember how many times since then I've damn near died….or _have_ died, actually…." He shook his head slightly at the odd truth in that statement, "…but I'll never forget you tearin' across the yard that mornin', yellin' your fool head off. If I hadn't moved from under that truck to see what you were hollerin' about…..you know, you never _did_ tell me how you knew that lift was gonna fail. Woulda pounded me right into the concrete. So uh…..thanks for that. Again." He paused as the next memory rushed in. "Y'know what I should've kept in the truck? That amulet I got blessed by the Dalai Lama after workin' that job near Dharamsala. Couldn't believe I was still in town when he was doin' a teaching. Wish you could've been there for that – actually, I kinda wish all these angel dicks we've been dealin' with the last few years could've too – they could learn somethin' from a 'simple monk.' Anyway, don't know why I kept a protective charm for travelers lyin' around the house. Don't make much sense…..and we could use it now that we're fresh outta home bases."

Bobby shrugged, eyes misting at the next image that hit. "I know you weren't around when Karen…um….came back…..but you were laid out on my damn bed enough times that I know you saw the dream catcher painted on the ceiling. She put it there right after we got married – said it was her job to bring me peace, and that included from nightmares." Bobby swallowed shakily. "She remembered. When she came back. Repainted it fresh. Said it was even more important now with everything…." Bobby closed his eyes, bowing his head under the weight of guilt and loss. He swiped at red eyes, sniffing back tears, and chuckled wetly, trying to move forward. "Speakin' of ceilings," his laughter grew brighter as the memory strengthened, "remember that time Rufus and I got piss-ass drunk celebrating….." he thought for a moment. "Actually, I don't even _remember_ what the job was – just that the thing was dead and we were both still breathin', which we figured was more'n enough. Y'know, for a moronic pain in my ass, Rufus sure could find the best booze. Anyway….we must've salt and burned or torched_ something _during that hunt, 'cause we decided makin' chicken flambé for dinner would be poetic symmetry or some nonsense. Don't really remember much else 'bout that night," he scratched his beard absently before grinning lightly, "but you know, you can _still_ see the scorch marks on the kitchen ceiling if you look hard enough?" He stopped, sobering. "I mean, _could_. Whole _place_ is scorched now." He grimaced, mind wandering along that thread.

"The Winchester boys and I are stayin' at one of Rufus' old spots right now. Lot's happened since you last laid eyes on 'em. Remember when Sam mailed me a copy of his first semester grades? 'Stanford University' in big letters on top and all 'A's' underneath? Though, if that boy _hadn't_ gotten an 'A' in Latin, we'd have had a talk. I think that was another day I almost went looking for his daddy just so I could shoot 'im. Sam sending it along with a note asking that I show Dean when John wasn't around…." He sighed heavily. "You know, I kept that report? And the note? Yeah, yeah, shaddup. Sentimental, my ass," he smiled wistfully. "Had a Polaroid somewhere of the three of them sleepin' on the spare bed – it was before you and I met, but I think I showed it to you once, didn't I? Anyway, _that_ was the picture I'd look at to stop myself when I was _really_ reachin' for the buckshot. Sam and Dean couldn't have been more'n two and six. John had an arm 'round each of 'em, their heads right on his chest, all three sound asleep. I knew John'd wake up with the flash, but he didn't even open his eyes – just asked me, real soft, to take another one so he'd have a copy. Bastard wasn't so bad sometimes – moments like that, he was one hell of a daddy to those boys. I always meant to give Sam and Dean a copy of that one – never got around to it." 'And now it's too late' hung heavy in the silence.

Bobby glanced at the time. "Balls. Guess I should wrap this 'feelin' our feelings' stuff up. Would you believe we've got Purgatory's most wanted surfing the sewers and jumping bodies? I know. Our lives, right? Anyway….thanks. Guess stuff is more'n just stuff sometimes. I don't know, maybe I'm scared I'll forget without it." He made a face. "Yeah, that's enough about my age. Bastard," he chuckled. "Just….thanks for listening. Those boys've got enough on their plates and well….it was good talkin' to you again. I know it's been a long time, but I still think of ya. You know, I never _did_ fix those shingles you chewed off the house? Still can't believe you never outgrew that. Anyway, I couldn't bring myself to replace 'em, so I just kept coverin' the spots with hubcaps." He shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Figures you'd eat shingles for years and be fine, but get taken out by a demon." He sobered guiltily. "I'm still sorry for that, by the way," he said quietly, silent for a long moment before continuing. "Hey, look me up when the time comes, huh? Way things're goin', it'll probably be sooner rather than later." He smiled, a soft mixture of sadness and relief. "Thanks, boy. Miss you too. Now go on – I've got work to do."

Bobby looked down at the ID tag he had been flipping through his fingers, the one that hadn't left his wallet in six years. Whenever he had needed a break from being the one with all the answers, Rumsfeld had always been there to listen. Bobby remembered the attentive brown eyes, the steady, grounding breathing, the familiar weight of the block head on his outstretched legs as he sat in front of the fire or out in the yard, a beer dangling loosely from one hand while the other scratched behind Rumsfeld's ears, the short, coarse hairs coming free to skitter down his fingers. Recalled the occasional cock of the head as Rumsfeld reacted to a sudden laugh or strange word, the close "I'm right here" nuzzle in response to a hitched breath.

And Bobby realized that he had just grieved his losses _to_ one of his losses. But he had also known, somewhere deep down, that Rumsfeld would understand. Would listen. Was the only one who really _could_.

And it had worked. Bobby wasn't completely "good", but he was less "_not_ good." And in remembering the house, in remembering Rumsfeld, Bobby realized that he had been right all along – the stuff wasn't important. Losing the house and the things in it didn't mean losing the memories associated with them. And it was the memories that mattered – that maybe he _was_ a little attached to. But he was okay with that - enlightenment could wait.

He had enough to do.

Bobby wasn't born yesterday - he knew that the skirmish he'd just won wouldn't be the last, that the grief could, and likely _would_, ambush him again in the future. But he still called today a victory because next time, he'd be ready.

He knew who to call.

Rubbing his thumb over the engraved name and familiar address one last time, Bobby tucked the tag back in his wallet. There was a gas station about two miles north and he needed to fill up before his next stop.

So with renewed resolution, Bobby pulled back onto the road.

And into the fight.


End file.
